That One Letter
by InfinityLessThree
Summary: Because we all have our pet theories on how Q got that mug. A collection of one-shots; prompts always welcome!
1. Mug

_Hey, all!_

_First off, I know, I know, I have other things I should be updating. But then I finally watched Skyfall, and... well... it's a problem. So here, for your enjoyment, some one-shots on our favorite Quartermaster. This first chapter is my own prompt. (That's right, I prompted myself.) Other than that... I would love suggestions. I'm not looking for romantic prompts this go-round, since I feel like that's all I ever write, but anything else is fair game! _

* * *

**Mug**

Of _course_ it was raining. Walking home from a perfectly horrid day, in London, what else did he expect? Q muttered irritably into his coat collar, pulled up uselessly against the wet, and hunched his shoulders a little further forward in an effort to protect his ears. He tried to watch his step, but his wet hair hung down between his eyes and his glasses, and his glasses were fogged from breathing into his collar.

When he planted one foot firmly into a puddle as deep as his ankle, then took another step before he could stop himself, he decided to call it quits. He made a dash for the first lit door he could find, shoved it open, and slipped inside. He breathed a sigh of relief at the quiet and the warm, yellow light. Being out of the rain made him more aware of the way that everything clung clammily to his skin, but he didn't mind that as much as he minded actually being pelted with an army of water droplets.

He glanced up around the shop, a little tourist boutique, and nearly ducked back out into the street. Only supreme force of will and the hammering of the rain on the store-front glass prevented him. If there were places in this world that Q was not meant to inhabit, they were tourist shops, with their cloy little cards and key-chains and who knew what else.

But it _was_ very wet outside. So Q decided, with the greatest of reluctance, that it might be worth having a look around, at least until the rain eased up or he could feel his feet again. He meandered through the maze of wall-shelves and turning stands, eyeing stuffed animals and Union Jack t-shirts with equal disdain. He found a rack of key-chains, and checked, as he always did, for the letter Q. There was a Quince, and a Quentin, and a Quinn, but no Q. He shrugged. It had bothered him, briefly, having to change his name so suddenly and completely. But then he had realized that if he really wanted a key-chain he could just make his own, and then had felt much better about the whole affair.

A row of mugs in the back corner caught his eye. He wandered that way, wondering lazily if yet another mug was a good idea. Most of them were pretty standard fare: "I LOVE LONDON" and such. He shrugged them off and turned to the t-shirts, and something caught his eye.

It was a scrabble letter. The Q, with a neat little ten point score in the top corner. The most difficult letter to play, and the most rewarding. Q's mouth quirked up in a smile at that. That irony had not escaped him when he had taken over as Quartermaster. And there it was, printed neatly on the side of a mug.

He plucked it from the shelf, inspected it closely. It felt nice and weighty in his hand; the kind of mug that could survive MI6. He already had a mug at MI6. It was silly, really, the kind of thing that got for one's birthday; a gag gift, turned sentimental. It wasn't something that one bought for oneself. He chided himself for frivolity and replaced it. He gave the t-shirts a once-over for good measure, and upon noticing that the rain had eased, steeled himself to leave.

Then something occurred to him.

Q was never going to get a mug like that for his birthday, because no one bought him birthday presents.

He bought the mug.

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_So? Thoughts, feelings, impressions, criticisms? Prompts (please)? Let me know!_


	2. Birthday

_You guys are so kind to me! Seriously, most flattering reviews ever. That last one got me thinking, so here's another chapter for you all. Enjoy!_

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**Birthday**

For his birthday, Q indulged himself in an extra mug of morning tea before he left for work. He got up a few minutes earlier to do it, but any day that started with a cup of Earl Gray was a good one in his book. He still had a cup when he got to Q-branch, of course. It helped him focus.

Having started the day in such a delightful mood, he made good progress through the whole morning, even indulging one of his pet projects for an hour before lunch. 007 had implied that he might be able to return some of Q's equipment in better shape if more of it exploded. Q thought that he could take out a building with a pair of cufflinks, and then Bond wouldn't have any more excuses.

He didn't go so far as to actually take a lunch, but he did dig some food out of a cupboard in his office and ate it as he worked. If anyone noticed his break in habit, or connected it with his birthday, they didn't say anything. He was halfway through what was probably some kind of pasty when M stopped in.

"007 requires assistance," he informed Q. Q set aside his current project with a sigh and dashed to his live workstation. He touched the earpiece to set it to connect with Bond's, and pulled up all known information on Bond's mission on his array of screens.

"What have you gotten into this time, Bond?" he asked briskly. He'd sent Bond out with a tracker; he'd lost it already. Q dipped quickly into video feeds, flicking through it impossibly fast in an effort to locate the agent. M watched him silently.

"I'm in the hotel," Bond informed him, just as Q found the feed for himself. "I need a way into the safe." Q glanced at the safe in question. It was a highly portable model, the most secure in the world. He nodded.

"I'll see what I can do."

"I need it now, Q."

"You can't rush genius, Mr. Bond." Despite his quip, Q's heart was pounding and his knees felt a bit iffy. Only long practice kept his fingers steady on the keyboard. Working with an agent in the field, having their lives in his hands, always scared him.

"I would appreciate a bit of haste, Q." Bond's voice in his ear was as panicked as it ever got. Q swallowed hard. How he hated his job sometimes. He took a steadying breath, adjusted his glasses, and entered the final sequence…

"I've got it. Sending the code to your mobile now."

He kept his eyes glued to the grainy camera as Bond retrieved the code, opened the safe, and retrieved the contents. His eyes flicked to the camera once in acknowledgement, and Q nodded back, relieved.

Two hours, four explosions, and several gunshots later, 007 returned triumphant to headquarters.

Without any of his equipment.

Q clenched his jaw. 007 returning empty-handed was nothing out of the ordinary, but he had hoped, in this particular instance, to get one of his toys back. It was a prototype, one of Q's personal projects, and it had taken several 90 hour weeks to complete. Most people brought their coworkers gifts for their birthdays. Explosions and extra paperwork weren't really called for.

When he opened his mouth to tell Bond so, _politely_, M silenced him with a glance. So he shut his mouth and excused himself back to his work. His heart was no longer in it, though. Frustration was making him clumsy, making it hard to focus. So when nine o' clock rolled around, he up his coat and was out the door.

Upon returning home, he realized that he was out of both bread for toast and tea. He decided summarily that it wasn't worth staying up any longer and went straight to bed. Just as he had taken off his glasses, he remembered that it was payday. He pressed a few buttons on the laptop on his side table and viewed his account. It was a habit left over from his early days that he'd never been able to kick.

His paycheck included a sizable bonus. It could've been for the equipment Bond had ruined, but he knew that it was M's way of saying "Happy Birthday."

* * *

_So, my pretties, what did you think? Always, prompts of any type or length are welcome. Basically, I'm asking what you guys want to read, 'cause I'm not always entirely sure what I want to write. _

_Leave me a review, send me a message, and let me know!_


	3. Drinks

_So I found a lovely set of prompts on Tumblr, and that is where these are coming from. Also, at this point, I think that I have to admit I have a problem. A Q kind of a problem. _

_Whatever. I'll live._

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**Drink**

He's been working at MI6 for several weeks before anyone invited him out for drinks after work. He considered declining, but remembers that human beings have difficulty undertaking actions that have the potential to alter the social status quo. If he passed up this offer, there would likely never be another one. So as the rest of the technicians started finishing up their projects for the night, Q followed suit. He made double and triple sure that everything was saved and secured behind his own personal firewalls. Then he zipped up his cardigan, gathered up his coat and locks his office. He stood awkwardly near the door of Q-branch until the rest of his co-workers (employees, technically) are ready to leave.

There are only a handful left- Q runs over their names as he follows their discussion about which pub to hit. Abbey argued somewhat passionately for The Blue Boar; Everett disagreed, favoring The Queen's Head. Morris and Kade didn't seem to really care, but took great pleasure in egging on Abbey and Everett's disagreements. Q just tailed along behind, hands shoved into his coat pockets, content to listen. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed being around people; he'd gone straight to work for MI6 after two solitary years working on a doctorate. He tried to calculate the last time he'd actually deliberately gone out into public for social reasons. He seemed to remember needing to create a new I.D. to order his own drinks. So it had to be five years, at least.

"Hey, Quartermaster, the vote is tied."

Q snapped back into the conversation. Abbey was the one who'd spoken; they were standing at a tube station, apparently trying to decide on a pub so they could take the appropriate line. Everyone else was watching him expectantly. He wondered briefly if it bothered them, not knowing his real name. He hesitated, unsure of the appropriate response, then shrugged.

"Toss a coin?" he suggested.

Abbey crowed, Everett protested, but in the end they flipped the coin. The Queen's Head it was. They stormed in together and settled into a table. Q slid in first, feeling perhaps a little more comfortable with a wall at his back.

Since Kade was most easily positioned to get out, they sent him to order the drinks. When he asked Q what he wanted, his mind went blank. It had been a very long time since he'd had anything other than the occasional glass of wine with dinner.

"I'm not really sure. Pick something for me," he decided quickly.

Kade grinned, and Q immediately regretted his decision. He did not always react well under social pressure. If it was life-or-death he could keep it together, but what to order? Forget it. He didn't know exactly how much he regretted it, though, until Kade slide a Pimm's in front of him.

Q eyed the fruity concoction dubiously while Everett snorted into his hand. Abbey was glaring at Kade, but Q pretended not to notice. It wasn't as if he knew what he really liked anyway, or had a particularly masculine reputation to protect. He looked up to catch Kade's challenging look, shrugged, and took a sip.

Then another.

It wasn't bad, really, aside from the principal of it. He could barely taste the alcohol, which was a bonus. It was perhaps a little sweet for Q's taste, but he could live with it. He glanced around the table, and broke the tension with a quirk of a smile. Abbey positively beamed, Morris and Everett looked relieved, and even Kade nodded grudgingly. After that, conversation came more easily, and Q chipped in more and more often as the level of his drink sank. Soon, they were all in stitches, ordering more drinks, and Q wondered fuzzily if he had always been this funny and just didn't know it, or if it was a recent development. He should probably look into it. At some point, they turned on more lights, or the ones that were on got brighter. Of course they didn't get brighter, he scolded himself, momentarily alarmed by his lack of basic electrical knowledge. His glass started to get slippery. He decided it was probably condensation and ordered another.

It was Kade who suggested that it was time to go home. They tried to arrange to help each other home, but it proved far too complicated, and they decided to just take their own tubes and ride together if their routes coincided. Thankfully, Abbey and Q shared a tube for a few stops, and then Q realized where he was.

"I can make it from here," he reassured her. "Are you lost? Can you make it home?"

She seemed to be nodding, but her eyes were having a hard time focusing.

"Abbey, do you know your way home?"

She looked up as if she had just noticed him.

"Oh! Q, I forgot you were there! You're so nice, making sure I get home. Have I ever told you that? You're a good boss." She patted his cheek kindly, then giggled. "And you have nice hair."

Q didn't quite follow the sequence of her logic, but he smiled anyway. He had never thought that he might be a good boss. Mostly he thought that the rest of Q-branch tolerated him because he was a genius. He told her that, and then she recognized her street, and went home. He went home, too, and was briefly puzzled by his own security system. How was he supposed to decode the lock if he didn't know the key? But then he remembered that he _did _know the key, because he had picked it, and he was extra-sure to lock the door behind him. For some reason, he wasn't entirely confident in his current cognitive abilities.

He couldn't go to bed without brushing his teeth, of course, though the toothpaste tasted awful when combined with the lingering fruity taste in his mouth. He brushed his teeth anyway, because he was very sure that he didn't want cavities. He remembered to change into his pyjamas, too, though he decided the buttons could wait until morning. By the time he pulled off his glasses and clambered into bed, some of the giddiness had worn off, leaving him feeling a little warm and sleepy.

He'd forgotten how nice it was to sometimes go out for drinks.

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_So? What did you think, huh? Leave me a review, let me know! I always love hearing from my lovely readers. :)_


	4. Speakers

_Hey all! Thanks so much for you kind reviews and favorites and follows. You make my heart happy. lb016, your Bond prompt is coming! In the meantime, enjoy two chapters!_

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**Speakers**

Q clicked the final piece of casing into place, then set back with a sigh. He pulled of his glasses and let them dangle in one hand while he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He blinked owlishly in the bright light of his office, then twisted his wrist to check the time.

2:31 AM

He swore, but his heart wasn't in it. He'd been hoping to get home and get some sleep before his appointment with Bond at 6:00 am, but by the time he got home and got to sleep, he would just have to get up and come back. He was too tired to really care, though. He would just stay up, give Bond his new toys, then head home. One of the perks of being the head of MI6's Q-branch was that he could more or less pick his own hours.

He slid his glasses back on and stretched. He fiddled with his newly-completed gadget, but he'd been working on it for fifteen straight hours, and there was nothing left to improve. He wandered over to his personal computer and scanned a few emails, but grew bored quickly and picked up another project on his workbench. He toyed with it for a few minutes, but in the manner of great geniuses, found that his attention wandered when not completely engaged. The silence became deafening.

He filled out a few reports while he waited, then checked the time again.

2:46 AM

All he think about was how _tired_ he was. He kept taking off his glasses, trying to let his eyes relax. He was glad, not for the first time, that he had insisted on LED lights. They were brighter, but they didn't flicker as badly. They kept headaches to a minimum. He pondered this as he closed his eyes, and realized abruptly that he was laying half-on his desk, head pillowed on his arms. He sat up with a start. He still had three hours to go. He pulled up some music on his computer, but it sounded tinny in echo-y space.

What he really needed, he mused, was a decent sound system.

A few minutes later, he returned to his office with a box of materials nicked from various divisions of Q-branch. He'd fill out the paperwork later. For now, he set to work assembling top-of-the-line speakers. It wasn't too complicated; he worked mostly from memory and instinct, using new psychoacoustic principles. Once they were finished, he crawled around the office, scrawling marks into the walls and ceiling until he was sure he had the optimal placements. A bit more work and they were installed, and he started in on the patching.

This was the tricky part. He fed the cables carefully, running them neatly behind walls so that they were invisible. He hooked them up to anything and everything, then used the patchwork to create a series of online connections…

He didn't realize that he was humming to himself while he worked, or that it was nearly six in the morning by the time he started to clean up. He ran his new system through a series of tests, feeding in everything from iTunes to CD's to an old gramophone he found. He set the main interface on his computer, so that he could layer any sound wave or file that MI6 had access to. Which, incidentally, was basically all of them. He adjusted the levels, layered them on top of each other, and generally paced the office making sure that all was as it should be.

Only when he was satisfied that he had created a nigh-unto-perfect speaker system in his office did he sink back into his roll-y chair and wonder what time it was.

6:42 AM

Q swore again, this time with feeling, and dashed out the door, leaving The Magic Flute echoing perfectly through the office.

* * *

_To any of my sound design friends out there, my apologies. I understand that under normal circumstances, it takes much longer to install a sound system than a few hours. Especially if you're building the speakers.  
_

_But Q is kind of special.  
_

_Next up: Picture Frame  
_


	5. Picture Frame

_And another tonight, just for fun._

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**Picture Frame**

The second day of Q's new job passed in much the same way as his first had: in a blur of paperwork, introductions, tours and tests that left him surprisingly tired. It was with something surprisingly akin to relief that he stood on the doorstep of his new flat, selected and paid for by MI6. He entered the security codes and made a mental note to change them at the earliest opportunity.

It was a larger flat than he would've picked for himself, and felt obstinately empty without any furniture in it. He had insisted on furnishing it himself, and nothing would arrive until the next day. His things stood in neatly stacked and labeled boxes that he had left in his old flat that morning. He walked through each room once- sitting room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, office. Everything was open and expensive and easily secured by MI6 in case of emergency. He returned to the pile of boxes and inspected them carefully. He had been very thorough in his labeling, and they had been stacked accordingly.

Unpacking would have to wait for another night, though. Q – his new name still sat oddly on his tongue – yawned hugely as he pulled out a few blankets and pillows from the box labeled "Bedding". He laid them out on the living room floor. He followed the labels to his overnight things: pyjamas, socks, toothbrush. He changed slowly, leaving the toothbrush and paste on the bathroom counter, then flicked out the lights as he padded to his makeshift bed. Finally, he opened the box labeled "Bedroom" and rummaged around in it for a particular picture frame. His fingers touched sharp wood, and he yanked it out and flipped it over, already smiling at the thought of picture he kept in the frame.

It was empty.

Q panicked, flipped the box upside down, scattering the contents. He pushed frantically through the mess, and when he didn't find the photo, dumped out the next box, and the next, and the next, though he knew what he would find. But he couldn't stop until he was sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the detritus of his life.

It was all gone. He had been such a fool, to think that having no remaining family or friends, getting rid of his birth certificate and I.D. cards, would be enough. Anything that was just his- clothes, mugs, books, electronics- they had left. Anything that could connect him with another human being was gone. Pictures, letters, his diploma, even a copy of his thesis notated in red ink by his professor; they had taken all of it. It didn't matter if the people they connected them to were alive, or dead, or hadn't seen him in years. They had been very thorough.

Slowly, he shoved one knee under himself, then the other. He leaned forward as far as he could, supporting himself on his hands until his fingertips caught on the edge of the picture frame. He pawed it closer, then grabbed it up and sunk back down onto his blankets. For a long time, he just held it, staring blankly at the glass. The picture was gone, but he was fiercely glad that they hadn't taken the frame. It had been a gift. With careful fingers, he propped it up next to the pillow.

The next day, his new furniture arrived, and Q cleaned up his mess, setting out everything neatly and methodically. He also changed the door codes and reconfigured the security system. When he was finished, he set the picture frame neatly on his bedside table.

And if M didn't like it, she could come and get it herself.

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_So what do you think? Who do you think the picture was of? As always, leave me a review, let me know what you want to read!_


	6. Coins

_So here is the part where I admit to you all that I don't see Q and Bond in a romantic relationship. No hate, I just don't ship it. That said, I do think they have a unique and fascinating friendship, and this might be part of it..._

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**Coins**

Q was at the coffee shop first. He didn't order coffee, of course, but he did order a pasty. Usually, when Bond reported, he needed it. He pulled up his laptop and started in on testing the CIA tech branch's remote security system. He was almost hacked in by the time Bond appeared. He slid casually into the chair across the table from Q, one elbow propped on the table and the other slung insolently over the back of the chair. Q didn't look up from his hacking.

"Please tell me you've brought me something back."

"Of course." Bond reached into his jacket pocket, and hope flared up in Q's belly. Sometimes, against all odds, Bond did return equipment more or less intact.

What Bond slapped down on the table was not, however, an extremely subtle poison-detecting ring. It was a handful of rubles.

Q cleared his throat, his fingers pausing their clacking.

"Bond, you do realize that this doesn't come anywhere near to covering your damage expenses."

Bond shrugged and flashed his infamous almost-smile.

"I couldn't come back empty handed. Think of it less as an apology and more of a future investment."

Q closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and counted backwards from ten. When he opened his eyes again, Bond was gone.

Bond returned early. Q was still in his office when Bond barged in without so much as a greeting. He laid a gun and a suitcase on the desk. Q looked up, his eyebrows arched far above the rims of his glasses.

"Thank you, 007."

Bond nodded brusquely. "You're welcome." He reached into his pocket and laid a handful of quarters and dollar coins on top of the suitcase.

"This is still not enough to replace the watch," Q informed Bond's back. Bond didn't pause, just shrugged as he closed the door behind him.

Next time Q finished a tin of tea, he put the coins in it, put the tin in his desk, and forgot about it.

Moneypenny cleared her throat.

"Bond is back."

"Yes, I know." Q glanced up from his computer, puzzled. He'd just been helping Bond with the mission; he was aware that he was back.

"He's in medical, but he asked me to give you this."

She held out an envelope, printed neatly with the letter Q.

Inside was nearly £500 in dinar. Q sighed and added it to the tin, vague thoughts of making Bond some kind of special toy starting to float around in his head.

The first thing that Q did upon hearing that Bond had died again was pull out the coin tin. There was nearly £5,000of foreign currency in it. Bond had been bringing coins in from his missions for nearly three years now, sometimes as little as a few peso, sometimes as much as $1,000 in one go. Q had meant to use them for some special toy, something explosive, but he'd never gotten around to it. Instead, he took the coins, and set up an account. He wired it every way he knew how, made sure that Bond and only Bond could access it, from any internet connection in the world.

When Bond decided to resurrect himself again, he would have a little help.

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_What'ja think? Leave me a review, let me know. If you liked it, we may see more of Bond in the future..._


	7. Magazine

_Next confession: I actually wrote like three prompts last weekend and am just barely getting around to putting them all up. So have another._

* * *

**Magazine**

Q hasn't subscribed to anything in years. If there was anything we wanted to read, he could access it easily online. To be quite honest, though, there wasn't anything in those tech magazines that interested him. They were usually behind the times, now that Q was heading up Q-branch.

In this instance, Q just needed something to read for ten minutes that _wasn't _paperwork. So he pulled up the latest issue of Technically Speaking and started skimming through article titles. Something about the new iPhone, graphics on a new video game, automated drones leading the conflict in the Middle East… Q pursed his lips. Half of this was exaggerated, and the other half was just wrong.

Wait, hold on. His mouse paused over a link. It was an article on using intelligent circuitry in automated transportation, which was his current pet project. He was going to be extremely vexed if some technician with a nine-to-five job solved the inherent difficulties before he did.

He pulled up the article and set in on it, absorbing it at impossible speed. The basic premise was exactly what he had been working with, then the next step of integrating bio-gel packs…

The process that this writer was describing was exactly the process he'd been using. Down to the letter. Q had no delusions about his genius. What he was doing was revolutionary. It was impossible. And it was damn well not acceptable for someone to copy it.

With a quick flick of a button, Q clouded the glass of his office walls. People could still get in if there was an emergency, of course, but everyone in Q-branch would know that he was involved in a personal project, and to leave well enough alone until he was finished.

It didn't take long. A few well-placed viruses, and not only did everyone at Technically Speaking know that one of their writers was a thief, but they also had much bigger problems to deal with. Five minutes after that, and one of Q-branch's new employees found himself in need of a new job, and probably a new identity.

Q un-fogged the walls and went back to work, feeling much better about his life.

* * *

_Next up will be Letters._


	8. Letters

_I am so sorry for the delay, I've been at a conference without internet all week. I'll catch up everything I've written as soon as I can._

* * *

Letters

Q wondered who had first thought of using numbers and letters as code names. He would've liked to shake their hand. Contrary to popular belief, he did not normally see people or problems as sets of facts and figures. Under pressure, though, he was finding the code names increasingly useful. Everything could be reduced to math, when detachment was necessary.

Agents were numbers, which was only fitting. They had a specific set of properties, specific values, would react in specific ways under certain circumstances. Agents were the values that an adept mathematician manipulated to solve the equation.

Solve for X. It was the most basic principle of algebra, and espionage was no different. If agents were numbers, then their leaders… they were the variables. The movers, the shakers, the brilliant and the mad, they were all unpredictable, even M. Especially M. All of their employees were just numbers, but the real enemies, they were letters. They were the X that needed to be solved for, and agents were the numbers MI6 used to do it.

Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if someone tried to solve for Q.

* * *

_Remember, I'm always open for prompts!_


	9. Destiny

_Another that I wrote while I had no internets._

* * *

Destiny

Q didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe in destiny, and he didn't believe that the universe really much cared what he did with his life. So when MI6 first approached him, he wondered what series of events had led them to his door. He wondered what would follow if he took their offer. He wondered what would follow if he refused. He worked the scenarios, and realized that either way, life as he knew it would be over. He took his time deciding. Because if there was something he believed in, it was making the right choices.

The first time he stood at the live operation station, he knew. It was a relief, actually. He'd already made his choice. But as he ran his fingers lightly over the keyboard, and gazed up at the array of monitors, he knew he had made the right choice.

Six months later, he switched two components and removed a wire, and the device whirred to life in his hand, and he knew. He had spent his whole life building things, but now they had a purpose. Now, he was saving the world, and he knew he had made the right choice.

He had been Quartermaster for quite a long time when they got him. When he had taken the job, he could not have foreseen this. MI6 knew he was missing, but they had no way of knowing where he was. _He_ had no way of knowing where he was. He was out of options. He had no choices. So he laid his head against the damp rock, wrapped his arms around his knees, and dared the universe to do something.

Then the ceiling exploded. A familiar voice called out for him. And he knew suddenly that even though he had made no choice, he was right anyway.

* * *

_What think you? This one was particularly difficult, I'm not sure I got it quite right... but oh well. Onwards and upwards!_


	10. Lucky

_And here's the last one that for now. Not sure I got this one quite right either, but I liked the idea. Enjoy!_

* * *

Lucky

Q pushed the cart clumsily through the door. One wheel caught, and the cart jerked, throwing a stack of silver suitcases to the floor. Q cursed and clambered around them, shoving them back onto the cart. He'd had them stacked in very careful order, but it was all ruined now. He cursed again for good measure.

He locked the doors behind him. The shooting range was off-limits for the rest of the day, owing to the dangerous nature of weapons testing. Q snorted at the thought. All of his weapons were perfectly safe by the time they made it into testing. He really only insisted on testing them himself for quality control.

He picked a suitcase at random. He'd meant to test the guns in order of agent number, but there was no telling now which was which until he got them back to the lab. He scowled. It was irritating, breaking routine. He examined the gun carefully, then the magazine, before clicking it into the gun.

He planted his feet carefully, wrapped both hands around the gun, and eyed the target dubiously. If this worked, the new bullets would explode on impact, and the entire target would disintegrate. Q wasn't the best shot in the world, but his real failing was that his shots got wilder the more pressure he was under. So he took a deep breath…

And the world exploded.

When he woke up, it was to pristine white and clinical blue. He blinked and the fuzzy colors solidified into medical. He groaned, realizing vaguely that he was hurt, and probably on any number of drugs. He blinked a few more times.

"Wha-" he swallowed and tried again. "What happened?" he asked no one in particular. M, whom he hadn't noticed sitting in the corner, came to stand next to the bed.

"Sabotage," M informed him. "We caught him. You were meant to blow yourself sky-high, but apparently you tested the wrong gun."

He said it as a statement, but Q heard the question.

"I normally test them in order." Normally was an awfully big word, with far too many syllables, and he tripped over it before continuing. "But I dropped them. I don't know which one it was."

M nodded.

"Good man. Do continue keeping yourself alive, won't you?"

Later, Q realized that the saboteurs plan was really quite fool-proof. A single gun, matched with a single bullet, and the Quartermaster would be dead. It would go down as an accident, and the saboteur would get off free. Q's quirks were no secret; it would not have been difficult to plan. The odds had all been in the saboteur's favor. All of the statistics said that he should be dead.

For the first time in his life, Q really understood the meaning of the word luck.

* * *

_Next prompt: 60's. Unless someone has something else they want to read first. Let me know what you think!_


	11. 60's

_I'm really quite please with this one. I perhaps took a few liberties with the prompt, but still, enjoy!_

* * *

60's

Q left his flat unlocked when he got home for the night. It was more of a courtesy than anything; Bond hated picking locks. Also, Q rather liked his door the way it was, sans bullet holes. He kicked his shoes off with a sigh. Days like this, it was hard to remember why he did what he did. Some missions were so bloody that he…

He shook his head, cutting off his train of thought. He had long since learned that it would get him nowhere. Instead, he filled the kettle and grabbed a pair of mugs from the cupboard at random. While he waited for the water to boil, he wandered over to his movie collection. He had easy online access to literally any movie ever made, but there was something satisfying in actually putting a DVD into the player. He browsed the titles absently, never sure of what would go over well.

The kettle whistled, and he tripped into the kitchen, catching his hip as he always did on the island that separated the sitting from the kitchen. He warmed both mugs, then set an Earl Grey teabag in his own and a darker concoction for Bond. He didn't know why he bothered. The man would probably just hold it for a while before reverting to whatever bottle he'd brought. He made it anyway, because no one should be without a cup of tea after a hard mission.

By the time he was finished with the tea, Bond was perched on the edge of his couch with a bottle of scotch in one hand. He had entered as silently as he had that first afternoon, after returning from a mission in Bangladesh that neither of them liked to remember. Q fetched a tumbler, and handed him both the glass and the mug without a word. They rarely talked during these post-traumatic sessions, and that suited Q fine. He picked a movie at random, which turned out to be "Psycho", shrugged, and put it in. Hitchcock seemed strangely appropriate after the day's events.

As he'd predicted, Bond barely touched his tea. He did drink most of the scotch, though he at least took the time to pour each glass first. When the movie finished, they stared at the blanked glowing screen for a long time. It was unbearably late, but Q knew that he, at least, wasn't going to get any sleep.

"Another?" he asked finally. Bond just nodded, tried to take a swig of the tea, and grimaced at the tepid water. Q put "Psycho" back in its place, then stood baffled in front of the DVD's, trying to decide on another. "Anything in particular?"

Bond shrugged. "Might as well stick with the classics."

So "The Birds" went in next, followed by "Dr. Strangelove" and "Bonnie and Clyde." It was perversely comforting, these old dark films. They were a reminder that they weren't the only ones who lived in fear and anger, a promise that it wasn't just now. The world wasn't falling apart on them, any more than it had been for the past fifty years.

When the sun finally reappeared, it was time for Q at least to head back into work. He gathered up the dishes and deposited them automatically in the sink. He retreated into his room to change and brush his hair, knowing that when he came back out, Bond would be gone. He made himself another cup of tea, and turned his thoughts to the day ahead. It was a difficult business, but he did it, because he was a professional and that was what he did. Still, a little bit of company and a few old movies never hurt.

* * *

_As always, leave me a review, let me know what you're thinking and what you want to see! _

_Also, you guys are pretty much the best readers ever. Give yourselves a hand._


	12. Novel

_I feel the need to add a disclaimer to this one: I don't own anything related to The Wheel of Time, or A Memory of Light. They are all Robert Jordan's and Brandon Sanderson's. And as far as my choice of that novel for this particular prompt, I stand by it. I think that Q would find something so detailed and well-developed not only appealing but actually absorbing. Also... they're just good books._

_So without further ado, enjoy!_

* * *

Novel

Q huddled in his office, hoping against hope that no one would need anything in particular from him today. He had turned the walls of his office a cloudy grey (one of his favorite features), but he still kept the book on his lap well below the desk. He felt like a school-boy again, sneaking his quantum physics textbooks into his foreign languages classes, but he couldn't help it.

Because _A Memory of Light_ had been out for exactly twelve hours and he had had his copy for exactly eight and dammit he was almost done! He had spent most of the morning, after his few obligatory meetings, curled in this exact same chair, all but inhaling chapter after chapter with ever-increasing joy. He was on the last few chapters – the last hundred pages of what had been a twenty-year, nearly ten-thousand page epic – when Moneypenny rapped on the door.

She barely paused before she opened the door, already sorting through the stack of folders in her hand. Q tried to shove the book hastily in a drawer, which was too small and crowded for it, and ended up holding it awkwardly under the desk instead.

"I've got three reports on ammunition consumption rates for you to look at, and…" she trailed off as she looked up. "Is everything okay?"

Q tried to rearrange his features quickly from 'not-guilty' to 'casual'.

"Yes, of course." He cleared his throat. "Reports?" He reached out with his free hand, but Moneypenny pulled the folders back over her shoulder.

"You're lying. You look guilty. What have you been up to Q? Because I swear, if you hijack my email one more time, I will-"

He cut in hastily. "Nothing like that, Moneypenny. I promised, remember?"

She nodded suspiciously. "So what is it, then?"

Q sighed. He had as much as admitted that he was up to something. Reluctantly, he picked the book up and thunked it down on the desk, all five hundred hardcover pages of it.

She looked down at the book, then at him, then back at the book.

And burst out laughing.

"Q, did you really just seclude yourself in your office for the entire morning to read a novel and expect anyone to care?"

Still confused by her good humor, he shrugged noncommittally. She shook her head fondly.

"You're the Quartermaster for MI6. You're more or less irreplaceable, and that comes with certain perks." She raised her eyebrows at the book. "Such as occasionally spending an entire morning on leisure reading."

Q cleared his throat, and was grateful that his scruffy hair covered the very red tips of his ears.

"Ah. I… hadn't thought of that," he admitted.

"Of course not. No worries, Q, your secret's safe with me." She flashed him a smile, then turned on her heel and headed back out the door.

"Wait," he called. "What about those reports?"

She grinned at him over her shoulder.

"They can wait till tomorrow. Finish your book."

He sat in perfect stillness for a long moment after she left, mulling over what she'd said. Then, instead of checking his email or reviewing the blueprints that Abbey had placed in his inbox, he opened the book to the second-to-last chapter, and enjoyed the Last Battle more or less guilt-free.

* * *

_Thoughts, feelings, criticisms, prompts? Leave me a review, and let me know!_


	13. An Old Friend

_This one's for Sirro 134, who requested to see what happens when Q meets an old friend! It also worked well with my next prompt, which was Hipster, so I put them together. _

_You guys fill my heart with glee. Carry on._

* * *

An Old Friend/Hipster

Q shifted his feet and stared up at the incoming flights. The flight he was waiting for had already arrived, and she should be through customs any moment. He sighed. At least he didn't have to hold one of those ridiculous signs. The individual he was waiting for had instructions to look for a tall man in a cardigan, glasses, and a mess of dark hair. He had glared at that, but Moneypenny had remained unrepentant.

Collaboration was not Q's strong suit to begin with. But at least if MI6 was going to make him do it, they were letting him to do it on his terms. His counterpart from CIA would be working in his labs, with his people, and his rules, to build the new equipment required for this particular mission. Q had fought tooth and nail to design them himself, but since American operatives were also involved, they had insisted. It was going to be a delicate procedure, and they seemed to believe that it required more than one genius on the case. Q snorted.

"It would be helpful if you didn't scare away the other Quartermaster," Bond's voice crackled slightly in his ear. Q made a mental note to take a look at the new earpieces, then summoned up a caustic reply.

"Director for Science and Technology. Don't you ever do research before a mission?"

He could practically hear Bond shrug.

"Isn't that your job?"

"Only insofar as you are incapable."

Bond chuckled, but Q had no time to be annoyed, because at that very moment, he heard someone call out his name.

"Kip?"

Q moved so quickly past surprise to panic that his whole body convulsed, then froze. He tried to remember the schematics that he had memorized, where the nearest exit was. His head whipped around frantically. Then it occurred to him that if someone knew his name, they might need to be brought in for questioning. But there were so many people…

"Oh my… Kip, is that you?" Through the press of the crowd, a red-headed woman Q's own age weaved her way towards him. Some of the tension eased from his joints, but he still watched her warily. He swallowed back his shock, trying to clear his throat.

"Anna?" he asked tentatively. The woman grinned, a bright and familiar gesture, and abandoned her wheeled luggage to wrap her arms around his middle. Stunned, he responded in kind. Not because he was a particularly affection person, but because that was what one did when Anna hugged them.

Bond's voice crackled in his ear again. "Q, report. What's happening?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out," he muttered. Anna stepped back and cocked her head curiously.

"Earpiece?" she asked. He nodded dumbly. "I should've guessed. The only way I got out of bringing my own guard dog was basic field training."

Q blinked rapidly a few times.

"Anna? What are you doing here?"

Anna paused in grabbing her luggage to shoot him a sarcastic look.

"Cardigan, glasses, tall, dark hair? Unless there's another wanna-be hipster wandering around Heathrow, I'm pretty sure you're the Quartermaster I'm supposed to be looking for." She held out a hand. "Anna Carpenter, Director for Science and Technology, CIA." Belatedly, she remembered that she had a badge, and instead of shaking his hand, fumbled for it inside of her pocket and handed it over. Despite the tiny spurt of hope in his belly, he inspected it carefully before handing it back.

She was definitely the woman he was here to meet.

"But you're not American."

Anna shrugged. "I am now. The CIA contacted me, a few years out of University. Said they were looking for a technician, and they wanted me. Promised there'd be no conflict of interests with Queen and country. So I took it." Q nodded slowly, processing the information.

"Q, report," Bond insisted again. Q opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed.

"We're fine, 007. I've got the CIA contact, we're on our way out."

"Don't dawdle."

Q nodded, but made no verbal response.

"We should go, Anna, or Bond is liable to get trigger-happy." He hoisted Anna's duffle back strap over one shoulder while she finally righted her luggage. She held out an arm.

"Lead the way, Kip."

Q winced as they threaded their way through the crowd.

"No one's called me that since University."

She glanced up at him, surprised. "What, you go by Christopher now?"

"Officially," he informed her tightly, "I don't have a name. I'm the Quartermaster. Everyone calls me Q."

"Hm." She thought about that for a minute, then nodded. "That makes sense, I suppose. These secret defense agencies are so stuffy. Q it is, then."

Q made brief eye contact to indicate his gratitude. They had gotten these quick, silent interchanges down pat in the years that they had been roommates during University. Anna's best friend Leslie, their other roommate, hadn't been Q's biggest fan, and it had been a source of constant contention. Anna had stood by him, though, in Leslie's frustrating campaigns that he wasn't doing the laundry the right way, or that the dishes weren't clean enough to suit her. She had always had a way of defending Q quietly, and still somehow managing to calm Leslie down. She had been Q's first real friend since childhood. He had meant to keep in touch after university, but then MI6 had come knocking at his door.

"Miss Carpenter."

Bond had appeared at Anna's side the moment they had walked out of the terminal doors. Q rolled his eyes at Bond's casual suavity. Anna accepted it with a smile, though.

"Do try _not_ to scare our new colleague off too quickly, won't you 007?"

"Of course." Bond took Anna's luggage and slung it into the boot, then handed Anna smoothly into the backseat. He grinned crookedly at Q from across the top of the car. "Kip."

Q sighed. He trusted Bond's discretion, but this could quickly become a very long project.

* * *

_I know we all have ideas on what Q's name would really be, so please don't crucify me. I liked the idea of a longer, more formal name that no one ever used. And then I fell in love with the name Kip, and needed something that could abbreviate appropriately, so... yeah. I know Christopher doesn't really suit; it's not meant to. That's why it's so cool that he's Q._

_As always, leave me a note, send me a message, let me know what you think!_


	14. Assignment

_General consensus seems to be that Anna should stick around for a bit, hence this little prompt. _

_As for your other prompts, they are coming I swear! I just have to work out how to do them justice, and then we'll be in business. In the meantime, enjoy!_

* * *

Assignment

_ Kip dexterously jiggled the doorknob to slide in sideways through the door, then closed it with his foot behind him. Walking very carefully, he wove his way through a set of mismatched chair to drop his burden onto the coffee table. The stack of textbooks made a startling _bang, _but he was so tired that he just blinked in surprise._

_ "Kip! Did you get Dr. Flescherman's thesis on geo-thermal nuclear physics?" Anna asked from the kitchen. Kip rolled his eyes. Who did she think he was?_

_ "Of course."_

_ "Great." She burst into the living room and tipped over the pile of textbooks, searching for the manuscript. She muttered to herself as she scattered the books into every available space. She'd already set up two whiteboards, one propped on the mantle and the other on the back of the couch. The markers seemed to have disappeared, though they might be under the pile of notebooks on the entertainment center. Dirty dishes and water bottles had sprouted up out of the mess, and Kip wasn't even sure whose socks were whose anymore._

_ Kip absently straightened a stack of DVD cases._

_ "Kip, focus! We've got to get this assignment done tonight. You can clean tomorrow."_

_ Kip sighed. He resisted the urge to clean off a corner of the coffee table, and instead used one arm to sweep everything off. On the tiny resulting space, he laid out his notebook, his laptop, and a pen. It was going to be a long night. _

Q had tried setting ground rules, but they had been pushed back and back until all he had left was his desk, a single island of clarity in an ocean of chaos. Walls that he kept clean had been posted with blueprints and sketches and photographic inspiration. His workbench was piled high with bits of electric wiring and tools, and Anna had managed to spread most of his floor with papers and notebooks.

"What do you think of this?" Anna asked, rolling a new blueprint out across his desk.

Q took a deep breath, picked up the blueprint, and moved the discussion over to a relatively clean patch of floor. Anna followed him curiously. Without missing a beat, he set in on the blueprints, discussing relative benefits of electromagnetic heat waves, and tried not to look at the rest of his office.

_"It's almost midnight."_

_ Kip didn't reply, just tried to work faster. If he wanted Anna's help finishing up this assignment, it would need to be done in the next ten minutes. Anna seemed to catch his energy, and put on a last-mile spurt of speed. When she looked up again, it was 12:03 A.M._

_ "Okay, that's quitting time."_

_ Kip gripped his pencil more tightly._

_ "We're not done yet, Anna."_

_ She shook her head, the messy pile of red hair clipped to the back of her head wobbling precariously. _

_ "We can pick it up in the morning."_

_ "_You _can pick it up in the morning," he corrected, still working furiously._

_ "You know the rules, Kip. Midnight, I'm done."_

_ Kip swallowed his retort and just shrugged. "Alright, then. Goodnight."_

_ "You should go to bed, too. You won't get yourself anywhere if you burn yourself out."_

_ "I'm almost done." It was a lie. He had at least an hour of work left, if Anna went to bed. But he would be damned if he was going to leave a project unfinished. Anna chewed her lip, then sighed._

_ "Alright, fine. Just this once, Kip."_

_ His mouth nearly quirked up in a smile._

_ "Thank you, Anna."_

Q's employees started trickling to report near the end of the day. Abbey updated him on her progress with 003's new tracker; Everett had spent the whole day on paperwork that now needed his signature. He spoke with each momentarily before sending them home, and by the time Kade popped in to say he was leaving, it was nearly midnight. He eyed Anna silently.

Finally, she noticed his attention.

"It's three these days," she informed him dryly. Q's mouth dropped into a tiny O of understanding. It made sense. Being Quartermaster had pushed him harder than being a university student ever had; it stood to reason that Anna had been pushed the same way.

They worked in companionable silence until 2:45 AM. Then Anna started packing her things up.

"You coming, Q?"

"Ten more minutes," he asked absently. Anna dropped her purse back onto the chair and came to stand behind him.

"Alright," she agreed. "Ten more minutes. What've you got?"

_ Leslie came home shortly after midnight, more than a little drunk. She did remember to lock the door behind her, though, before dropping gracelessly into an armchair._

_ "Watcha doing?" she slurred._

_ "Working," Kip replied tersely._

_ "What on?"_

_ "Homework."_

_ Anna paused in her work to watch them, back and forth, ready to jump in if necessary._

_ "You think you're so smart," she accused cheerfully. Leslie was always her most cheerful when she was drunk._

_ "So does everyone else," he replied blandly._

_ Leslie raised her eyebrows, affronted. "Well, I don't! I don't think you're smart! I don't, do I, Anna?" She tried to enlist her best friend's help._

_ Anna made the best of her opening. "We're trying to get this done, Leslie. Why don't you go to bed, and I'll bring you in some water, okay?"_

_ Leslie scowled. "Fine, take his side!" She staggered to her feet, sabotaged by her heels. She left, though, and as soon as she did, Kip's breath came more easily. He didn't stop to give her a real 'thank you,' but he did shoot Anna a look. She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway._

Q seriously considered getting another lock on his door.

"What do you need, Bond?"

Bond ignored him. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered over to where Anna was working, watching her solder a complicated framework of thin metal. She didn't pay him any attention, but Q could see her shoulders get tense.

Q cleared his throat. He'd been politely ignoring the fact that Anna and Bond had been sleeping together for nearly a week now, but Anna was infamous for not mixing business with pleasure. She said it made her feel unprofessional at best. Normally, Q tolerated the belligerent agent wandering in and out at all hours, but not if it was going to affect Anna's work. He cleared his throat. Bond shot him a surprised glanced, as if checking to see if he was alright. Then he turned back to watching Anna.

There was a time for subtlety, and this was not it. Q laced his hands on top of his desk and turned his full attention towards Bond's back.

"007, we're working. If you need something, please tell me. If not, please remove yourself from my office."

Both Bond and Anna turned to face him, surprised.

Q could see Bond struggle momentarily, trying to decide whether to continue annoying his Quartermaster, or leave well enough alone. Finally, his dubious sense of self-preservation won out.

"Very well, then. I can tell where I'm not welcome." He said it so sarcastically that Q wasn't even vaguely worried that he was actually offended.

Anna watched him go, then caught Q's eye.

"I get the feeling I'm going to pay for that later," she quipped.

Q tried to look sympathetic, but couldn't quite manage it, and Anna laughed.

"Thanks anyway, though."

Q rolled his eyes, then smiled.

Some things never changed.

* * *

_As always, I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts._


	15. Cracks

_Basically, I'm the worst ever, and I could give you lots of excuses as to why this took so long, but I won't. Just apologies. Anyway, this one's for private investigator 726, who wanted something to remind Q of his childhood. This may not be quite what you had in mind... _

_Anyway, I imagine it taking place sometime just before Destiny, you know, with the whole kidnapping thing. Warnings for a little bit of violence.  
_

* * *

Q tried to focus on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. He had no desire to throw up in front of these thugs, though he might reconsider if he thought he could hit the boss's leather shoes. One of the lackeys pulled back a fist, and Q sucked in a deep breath. The suit held out one hand, holding him back.

"Hold on, Tommy. Give the man a chance to speak."

Q wasn't sure where the suit was from, but his accent was nearly invisible. Much more prominent was his tone of command. He hitched up his pant legs to squat in front of Q, putting their eyes on a level. Tommy took a respectful step back, and Q let out a breath. He knew that it made him look week, and that annoyed him, but he had more important things to worry about. First on his list was keeping his brilliant new codes to himself, thanks very much.

"Now, Quartermaster, would you like to talk to me?"

Very slowly, despite his dizziness, Q raised his head. The movement dislodged a drop of blood, which dripped obstinately down his neck. He wished his hands were free so that he could wipe it away. He couldn't even feel his hands, beyond a vague tingling. He licked his lips, and tried to push words past the throbbing swelling.

"Three-" he coughed, swallowed, and started again. "Three point one four five two…"

Triumph flared behind his kidnapper's eyes, then faded as he realized that Q was just reciting the digits of pi. He snarled, and for the first time, he threw his own punch. It caught Q on his nose and cheekbone, and Q snapped out of reality into a dizzy haze. There was a crack as his head hit cement, and he realized vaguely that the chair had fallen over, with him still tied to it.

Q closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sickening carousel the cement had decided to take him on. When the spinning didn't stop, he opened them again blearily. His attention skittered along the rough floor, looking for something to latch on to. A raised crack caught his eye.

There was a crack in the cement.

_There was a crack in the cement._

_ Kip gripped the chalk tightly in his first, heedless of the resulting red smears. It was a crooked, vicious crack, running right across where the next hopscotch square was supposed to be. Kip had spent the entire morning carefully measuring and drawing in squares one through eleven, matching them with the individual blocks of sidewalk, only to be foiled by one stupid crack._

_ When the crack didn't disappear under the weight of his glare, Kip clenched his jaw in rage and threw the chalk on the ground. It shattered. He bit a quivering lip and plopped onto the grass, staring at his ruined project._

_ A few minutes later, his mother appeared and claimed the patch of grass next to him._

_ "So. What's up?" she asked. He folded his arms. He didn't want to talk to her right now._

_ "Nothing."_

_ "Oh." She sat silently for a moment, looking out at the street, then down at the sidewalk. "This is a pretty sweet set-up you've got here." She nodded at the hopscotch board. It was too much for Kip._

_ "No it's not! It was supposed to be perfect! But then this stupid crack came out of NOWHERE and my chalk broke!"_

_ Kip's mother nodded wisely. "I see. What are you going to do about it?"_

_ Kip remembered that he didn't want to talk to her. He scowled. "Nothing."_

_ "Well, don't you want to play hopscotch?"_

_ "I can't play hopscotch!" he wailed, frustrated at her lack of understanding. "'Cause the stupid crack is in the way!"_

_ "Well, it looks like you have a problem."_

_ "Yeah."_

_ "And what do we do when we have a problem?"_

_ Kip ducked his head, and mumbled, "Start over."_

_ His mother smiled, and a little of the soggy feeling in his chest dissolved. _

_ "So, what do you want?"_

_ Kip straightened, brows furrowing slightly. "I wanna play hopscotch."_

_ "Okay, great. Why?"_

_ 'Why' was always the first question._

_ "Because it's fun."_

_ His mother nodded. "Alright. You want to play hopscotch because it's fun. So as long as it's fun, you'll be getting what you want, right?"_

_ Kip watched her warily. "Right."_

_ "Why is it fun?"_

_ "'Cause you have to hop all over and it's hard!" he informed her, proud to know an answer she didn't._

_ "So why is the crack a problem?"_

_ Kip's good mood dissolved. "Because I can't draw the squares! So I have nothing to hop on!"_

_ Kips mother smiled, her secret-proud smile. _

_ "But hopscotch isn't fun because you jump on _squares. _It's fun because you have to hop all around."_

_ "Oh." Kip hadn't considered this before._

_ "So what's the next question after 'why'?" Kip's mother nudged him._

_ "How," he replied promptly._

_ "That's my problem-solver! So now that you know why you want to play hopscotch, and that it's fun because you're hopping around, how can you have fun hopping around even though there's a crack?"_

_ Kip, absorbed by this new problem, stared thoughtfully at the crack. People jumped over cracks, didn't they? What if he had to jump over the crack? But then it wouldn't match. And if there was a pattern, it should match._

_ So get rid of the pattern._

_ The thought came in a flash of inspiration. Then he was up on his feet, running as fast as he could for the hose. Once he had successfully turned it on, he brandished it at the sidewalk, totally oblivious to his mother's surprise. He stuck his thumb into the nozzle so that it sprayed harder, washing away the squares._

_ Then he set in on a new hopscotch board. The first step was a square, with the number one printed on it. Then two circles, both labeled two. Then he asked his mother how large the average foot was, and she replied confidently that her foot was average size. He traced it carefully, then colored in the rest of the sidewalk box, so that only the footprint was clear. Next was a set of numbers in a spiral, four through eight. The crack he covered with a bridge, which had to be tiptoed over. The board continued, getting more complicated each step._

_ It turned out to be the best game of hopscotch he ever played._

Q wanted something very much. He was having difficulty remembering what it was. Someone yelled at him.

Oh, yes. He wanted his kidnappers to not be able to hack into any secure server, anytime, anywhere.

Why?

The question came to him, unbidden. He hadn't thought about his problem-solving methods in years, operating mostly on instinct. Now, though, it seemed very important to keep his thoughts very clear.

Right. He wanted them to not be able to do the hacking thing so that people didn't die, and MI6 didn't go up in flames.

How?

He'd been working under the assumption that it was best to just not give them anything. But that wasn't going to work. It was a problem. So how was he going to solve the problem?

Keep people alive. Keep MI6 running. Keep them from doing any hacking.

As was often the case, the answer was blindingly clear, once he bothered to work it out.

He swallowed, and his heart stuttered. He wasn't at all sure if he could pull this off. He would have to sell it. He waited for them to yank his chair upright, and whimpered at the new pounding in his head. He let them punch him a few more times, trying to give himself time to work. Then he started talking.

The codes weren't gibberish. They were very carefully, cleverly designed to make it look like they were allowing his kidnappers into the MI6 database, when really they would send notices directly to all of Q-branches computers, notifying them of the "security breach". They would access a few basic files, then be promptly shut down. If he was very, very lucky, they would be able to trace them back to Q's location.

It wasn't exactly the best interrogation ever, but Q thought it might turn out alright. As far as kidnapping went.

* * *

_So! The next one shall be on flying. And why Q is afraid of it._


	16. Flying

_It's okay. You can say it. I am officially the worst person ever. I should never wait this long between chapters to update. On the upside, I did write a prompt, and I am particularly pleased with it, so perhaps my offering will appease the reader gods. On that note, enjoy!_

* * *

Flying

Q had run the numbers. He had worked the equations, tested the physics. He had all but reinvented aviation. It was completely scientifically sound.

He still didn't trust flying.

It vexed him greatly. Every now and again, he undertook the tax of convincing himself that planes were perfectly safe. Every time, it accomplished nothing, except the occasionally having to sit down with his head between his knees. He was a scientist, and engineer! There was no room in his life for irrationality, and yet he could not get rid of it.

At some point, he had decided that personally inspecting any plane he actually had to board would ease his anxiety. That, unfortunately, was where M had drawn the line. He was supposed to be a traveling businessman, not a secret agent with special plane-inspecting privileges.

He settled for going over the plane's blueprints inch-by-inch while he waited to board. He had booked the flight himself, and had carefully selected the safest available plane. The statistics provided were useless, of course; he had painstakingly calculated his own numbers based on a variety of variables, including design, manufacturing process, number of passengers, etc.

A boarding warning blared over the speakers. With shaking hands, Q opened a bottle and tossed back a few more anti-anxiety pills than had strictly been prescribed. Then he checked and re-checked his luggage, tucked his laptop under his arm, and approached the desk. He must've looked nervous, because the girl behind the counter smiled sympathetically as she took his passport. It read something like "Alix Carson," and the picture had been taken in his office.

"Have a good flight," she smiled, and he tried to pull his lips back in a normal response.

Boarding wasn't so bad. There was nothing terrifying about a plan that was just sitting on the ground. As people streamed past him to their seats, he peeked out the window occasionally to reassure himself that they were still firmly on the ground. Just as the MI6-provided therapist had recommended, he focused as much of his formidable brain-power on taking deep, even breaths, as the task could handle. He waited until the pre-flight announcement started, and the plane backed out to cruise infuriatingly around the runway, to pull out his laptop again. Strictly speaking, he was supposed to have turned off all electronics, and there would be no internet for the next forty-five minutes or so, but the breathing exercise still left far too much of his mental capacity left over to try to kick his body into overdrive, and a full-blown panic attack. When the flight attendant came by to ask him to turn it off, she took one look at his face and his shaking fingers, and offered to get him a drink.

"Vodka, please."

He hated vodka, hated everything about it, except for its high alcohol content. She returned with it before the plane went into lift-off, thankfully, and he tossed it back with a grimace. He spared a thought to wonder whether the alcohol would react badly with the medication, but didn't apply the attention required to work it out himself. He just crossed his fingers and hoped that he passed out soon. When the plane started to pick up speed in preparation for take-off, he slammed the blind shut. He had meant, at this point, to lose himself in some particularly intriguing programming he'd been saving for this trip, but as the plane gained speed, he squeezed his eyes shut and found that he could not open them again. His arms were wrapped so tightly around his laptop that it was jabbing painfully into his elbows and wrists. He tried to focus on that. Then his breathing started to get out of hand, and he switched tacks. In for four heartbeats, hold for four, out for four. The problem with that was that his heart rate was speeding up. He wasn't sure whether to keep the measure steady, or whether to continue to measure by the heartbeat, and panicked momentarily. Then his brain solved the problem for him, and he switched to six heartbeats until his ears stopped popping. He could no longer feel the acceleration pushing him back, and he opened one eye cautiously.

For a moment, he did quite well. It was just an airplane. He could've been on the ground, except for the low hum of the engines. Then he glanced to one side, where another passenger had their window shade open, and saw nothing but blue sky.

Before he could lose it entirely, he flipped his computer open and checked for internet connection. It had been longer than he thought, and they had reached cruising altitude. Sending out miscellaneous prayers of gratitude into the universe, Q pulled up the game he'd been saving for this flight. He'd spent a great deal of time picking it out- something technically well-built, so that he had no urge to rewrite it, but not so complex that manipulating it became a personal challenge. It was a shooter game, something mind-numbingly absorbing, and Q used the internet connection to log on to a server, so that he could play with other people. Him versus a computer was never exactly fair, and certainly not interesting enough to stave off a panic attack.

Soon enough he was in, rolling around experimentally, switching guns, and dodging behind buildings. A request popped up on his window, which he quickly accepted, and then they were off. It was a fairly basic first mission: infiltrate the base, access the big red button, kill anything that gets in your way. Q moved ahead cautiously, avoiding the enemies when he could.

His companion had other ideas. Whenever they entered a room, he walked immediately to the center of it and started shooting things. Q swore under his breath and tried to cover him, but it turned out to be unnecessary. This guy seemed to know where the enemies would be even before they started shooting, and neither of them took any real damage. Slowly, his frustration turned to awe. They entered another section, a warehouse. Again, his companion ran to the exposed center of the room and started picking out snipers. Q ran around the edge to snag a few grunts, killing them easily with one or two shots apiece. Then suddenly, his companion was dying, taking more damage in five seconds than they had taken together the entire game.

A message popped up in his chat: **A little help, please?**

Q dashed up onto a pile of crates, then jumped to pull himself up onto a grate sticking out from the wall. He ran along the makeshift platform to a set of doors, where more and more enemies were piling in, all intent on Q's erstwhile companion. Thankfully, he had taken cover. Q's eyebrows furrowed as he looked for some kind of puzzle, and finally found a set of controls that slammed the doors shut.

**Thanks, I've got these.**

Somewhat amused by his companion's perfect grammar, Q shrugged and turned to watch him mop up the last of the enemies. Only when the character stopped briefly to examine a beautiful old Aston Martin now smoking black, did Q start to wonder.

Once he asked the right question, the answer was easy. This player was a man used to difficult mission, a man who knew what to expect, who stayed calm under pressure, and who delighted far too much in anything explosive. At the end of the level, after a particularly anticlimactic fight, Q hit the message reply, and tentatively typed in, Bond?

**Who else?**

** Did M put you put to this?**

** …I was given the day off.**

Q didn't know whether to be angry or pleased. At the end of the day, though, M had made a good call. If there was anyone that could keep things interesting enough to distract him, it was James Bond. Q shrugged, put in his noise-cancelling headphones, and ignored the fact that he was thousands of feet in the air.

* * *

_At any rate, I thought it would be most interesting if Q's fear of flying was totally illogical, versus due to some childhood trauma. That's my take. So, like it, love it, leave it, whatever. I won't be offended. If you have something to say, though, leave me a review!_


	17. Duel

Duel

The first few viruses were nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to worry about. Just a wannabe hacker, trying to get into Q's systems. Q sighed at the inconvenience, and set a few firewalls. It wasn't until someone got through one of those that he actually started to worry.

His first attempts at tracing were useless. He wasn't quite sure how they'd managed to make it look as though they were connecting to an up-and-coming terrorist group in Africa, but he knew that it wasn't true. That particular group had neither the resources nor the talent for this kind of attack. For an attack it quickly became, a constant barrage of code and Trojan horses and every sort of technological gizmo known to mankind. Q spent three days fending it off, giving quiet, urgent orders to his team, before he realized that whoever was doing it had help. There were certain trademarks about the original infiltrator- a sense of elegance, ingenuity, a certain quickness of reaction- that marked him out as separate. Soon, Q was relegating most of the legwork to the rest of Q-branch, catching naps when he could, and woken at the first sign of the head hacker's return. He favored the wee hours of the morning, and Q was glad that he had no real circadian rhythms to speak of.

Still, it started to tell on him. The first time he passed out, nearly two weeks after the original attack, Moneypenny was the one who set up a cot in his office. She also assigned someone to making sure that he ate semi-regular meals with his tea. M stopped by at some point, though Q was too absorbed into what was quickly becoming a personal vendetta to do much more than shush him. Even Bond stopped by a few times, keeping a surreptitious eye on Q-branch's security. Q didn't consciously notice, but he did lose a little of the tension, which was quickly replaced by the haze of exhaustion.

He lost track of time. His breaks became shorter and shorter, until they finally disappeared entirely. He and his opponent both knew that they were in the endgame now. The rest of Q-branch was fully occupied with the peripheral attacks, occasionally sacrificing systems or information in order to protect MI6's vitals. Q could only trust that they were capable; he had no attention left for them now.

Q was not unfeeling to the sense of poetry that confined him to his workstation, isolated from everyone else, fighting his own personal war. He was not even conscious of his physical movements- the way his fingers skittered over the keyboard, how he occasionally pushed up his glasses or tossed his hair out of his eyes. His work had long since melded into something much more metaphorical. He fought, and he danced. He met a strike, then slipped under his opponents guard; a hit nearly, before he was thrown back. He stepped back for balance, waiting for another attack, then skipped to the side for a counterstrike. He knew it was only a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, before the attacker was through, and Q would have only the barest nanosecond to trace him. He remembered vaguely that M had sent operatives to every corner of the world, waiting on a location, a name, anything. If Q could give it to them, they would be saved.

An opening came and went before Q could react. Cursing distractedly, Q waited for another chance, still typing furiously.

It came, and this time, Q was faster.

He called out an I.P. address. The attack ceased even before Abby had a chance to look it up, the hacker no doubt having decided to make good his real-time escape. Q blinked in surprise; his fingers twitched. He opened his mouth to give instructions, but swayed, and collapsed.

Moneypenny caught him with a fond sigh. By the time she returned from settling him on the cot in his office, Q-branch was already shoring up the breaches in their defenses, batting around ideas for new defense systems, and someone had found a bottle of whiskey somewhere. And though he would likely never know it, it was Q they toasted first.

* * *

_You are all so kind to me... seriously, I don't think that without all of your reviews and follows and things, I would even still be writing this. So please take a moment to hold up an imaginary glass of [insert your choice of beverage here], and drink a toast to yourself.  
_


	18. Caffeine

_So... it's been awhile... but I wrote prompts! Someone said caffeine, and time-travel was on my list..._

* * *

There was a reason Q drank tea and not coffee. All of Q-branch had been informed of this during orientation. Tea _only,_ even after 72 hours of consciousness. For the most part they shrugged, tugged their coffee cups a little closer, and complied. It seemed to work, at any rate. It was not uncommon, during times of crisis, for Q to go 48, 72, or even 84 hours on nothing but Earl Grey and a pasty or two. It certainly wasn't healthy, but MI6 wasn't known for its health benefits.

It wasn't until he was pushing 124 hours straight that he started to make mistakes. It was a first for him, actually; both making mistakes and five days without so much as a cat nap. He remembered vaguely reading something about the record for sleep deprivation was 11 days. He was half-way there. He was having a strangely difficult time focusing; things like sticky keys or cracks in the plaster kept distracting him. He was relatively sure that the clacking sound of the many keyboards in Q-branch was whipping up the dust devils he kept seeing in corners, but then he would change his mind and decide that he was just hallucinating. In any case, neither 003 nor the sensitive information he carried only in his own head were back safe yet, so it wasn't worth dwelling on how tired he was.

Moneypenny was part of the hasty council-of-war that decided that something needed to be done. They couldn't spare Q, even for a moment, but his slip-ups were getting worse, and his reaction time was unbelievably low. It was finally decided that a bit of chemical support might be called for. They were concerned about the taste of the energy drink being too noticeable, so Abby made the strongest pot of tea she'd ever made in her life before they spiked it. They needn't have bothered; Q was so distracted that he barely even noticed that he was moving his mug to his mouth anymore.

The effect was almost instantaneous. 003 was home within an hour. Then Q moved on to more important things. Like time travel. Time travel was really a fascinating and underexplored area of science. No, no, he didn't need any help. Yes, he was fine, but oh, could someone go get him a kitten. He wasn't sure why. But he had a feeling that a kitten would be helpful in finding the key to faster-than-light travel. No, he had moved on from time travel. But speaking of…

He was a force of nature. Q branch sat back in awe as he dashed around from one computer to the next. He yelled for second opinions on equations and theories, then disappeared for ten minutes. M nearly called in all agents to look for him. Thankfully, he reappeared within ten minutes, with the kitten that he had previously requested, which no one had actually thought that he wanted.

After a few hours, another hushed council-of-war decided that there was nothing for it but to let him ride it out. They set up shifts, sending some of the most exhausted home, making sure that there were at least a few agents in the vicinity at all times.

Moneypenny was surprised at the amount he actually managed to accomplish. She didn't really know a lot about time or interstellar travel, but his math actually looked pretty solid, and his explanations of his theories, when he slowed down enough to explain it, made logical sense. The kitten was firmly ensconced in Q's office.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Q sat down at his desk to check one of the eight programs he was running, and he was asleep.

And with that, MI6 was taken off high alert, and everyone else decided to take the day off.

* * *

_I'm not gonna lie guys, I'm running out of steam. If there's something you really want to read (other than more of the kitten- I am planning on that, as well as the torch prompt in the works), get your requests in now, because we've probably only got a few more left.  
_


	19. TARDIS

_I am sure that you have all noticed that some chapters are better than others. While I am particularly fond of this one, and the prompt, (thanks Guest), I warn you that it might be on just a little bit of crack._

* * *

Q pounded his pillow in frustration, flipped it over to the cool side, and squeezed his eyes shut. He thought about giving up, just cutting his losses and letting the insomnia have this one, but decided against it on principle. It was only two, and much too early to give in. He yawned at the same time that he sighed, and sprang up, choking and spluttering.

He let his head fall back onto the pillow. He'd been working too many hours again. This always happened. He'd just get his sleeping patterns all sorted out when 007 would disappear, which meant twice the work for Q, on top of trying to find or resurrect him, and suddenly he hadn't slept in days. This week had been particularly brutal. Q had no illusions about his job, and what he did. He'd given up justifying his work as "right" and settled for "necessary." It didn't matter that he didn't pull the trigger, if he was the one who'd made the gun. Sometimes, though, it was worth it. At the end of the day, if the number of lives saved was greater than or equal to the number of lives lost… well, that was a good day. The bad days were the ones that left Q tossing and turning, trying to factor in new numbers and variables, wondering if he was really cut out for this job.

He didn't even realize that he was nearly asleep until something woke him up. It was a sort of humming, screeching sound- something familiar, throbbing. Q blinked a few times and sat up, head cocked. There was definitely something in the kitchen, and it sounded like his biscuit jar. It was a TARDIS jar, a gag holiday gift from Moneypenny, and that was exactly the sound it made when someone opened it. Except louder. Much louder.

Q poked his head around the doorway, both curious and slightly afraid. He was confident that he had the best in-home security system in the nation; why would someone break into his kitchen to steal biscuits? There was a thud, and quiet, garbled cursing. Q's heart pounded painfully. There was definitely someone in his kitchen. With shaky hands, Q pulled out the gun he'd shoved in the waist of his pyjamas, tried to remember everything MI6 had ever taught him about shooting it, and stepped around the corner.

There was a TARDIS in his kitchen.

Not a biscuit-jar sized one either. A full size one. Not a TARDIS, he corrected himself. _The_ TARDIS. Frozen in shock, Q tried to come up with some kind of reasonable explanation. A prank, perhaps- Moneypenny seemed particularly intrigued by his geekier interests. Then a man fell off of the counter behind the TARDIS, and Q decided there was no reasonable explanation.

The Doctor was in his kitchen.

It wasn't someone that Q had ever seen before, but he was sure. It was an older, thin-faced man in a vest who didn't seem quite sure what to do with all of his limbs. He seemed to be attempting to melt Q's colander with a sonic screwdriver. Q cleared his throat politely.

"Oh! So sorry to disturb you. And…" he noticed the colander in his hand, hesitated, then shoved it behind his back as though Q had not already seen it, "…sorry. To disturb you. Oh, I already said that bit, didn't I? Just give me a moment, and I'll be out of your hair!" The Doctor whirled on his heel and tugged the TARDIS doors open. For a moment, he disappeared, and Q wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Then the doors were flung open, a great deal of smoke billowed out, and The Doctor was blown back into the kitchen. Q took a hesitant step forward, then another back, then cleared his throat again.

"Right. So much for a strategic retreat. Look, have you got a radio?"

Q shook his head mutely. He could listen to the radio on his laptop, if he wanted. Which he never did.

The Doctor sighed. "Of course you haven't. It's a brave new world, nobody's got a radio anymore. It's a shame, that. Well, I'll just have to go and fetch one. Coming?" The Doctor, in his mad, concentrated rush, was already at the door.

"What's it for?" Q surprised himself by asking.

The Doctor paused and blinked over his shoulder. "For fixing the TARDIS, of course."

It was the kind of answer that teachers had given Q all his life, and he sighed.

"No, I mean specifically, what's it for? What's wrong with her? What needs fixing?"

The Doctor turned around slowly. "The intraspacial predictability cartographer is acting up. She doesn't need it, really, but she's insisting that I fix it," he offered cautiously.

Q furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully. "You could bypass it," he murmured, almost to himself. "Send the spacial mapping functions through the navigations controls and compensate on a moment-to-moment basis." Q had long since accepted that he worked mostly on instinct, and this was no different. He wasn't even entirely sure what an intraspacial predictability cartographer did, but if it was anything like the name implied, he was relatively sure of his solution. "Cannibalise the original array for the compensation, assuming that the navigation system is compatible. It might even streamline it a bit." He blinked back into reality to find the Doctor not three feet from him, watching him intensely.

"What's your name?"

"Q."

For the first time in a very long time, there were no questions about a last name. The Doctor nodded briskly.

"Right, then, Q, want to come take a look?"

Q was half-convinced that he was still asleep. She really was bigger on the inside, and just as beautiful as he'd always thought. A mess, perhaps, and sloppily patched, but with great love. It had been a long time since Q had made anything like that. The technology was beyond Q's total comprehension. Some of it made perfect sense, while other aspects were totally foreign. He couldn't have said what any of the single parts of the intraspacial predictability cartographer did, but he could tell that it wasn't function. It just _looked_ wrong. And he knew how to fix it.

Q lost track of time, and didn't even notice the irony. He had forgotten how long it had been since he had just fixed something, something that needed all of his attention and all of his affection. He hummed while he worked, and didn't notice the silence. When he was done, he laid one hand on the TARDIS's console and smiled.

The Doctor cleared his throat.

"Would you like to test it out?"

Q started in surprise. Test it out?

"Anywhere in time and space, take your pick. Just to a quick test run to make sure everything's ship-shape."

If there was one thing Q knew about the Doctor, it was that a quick test run was never just a quick test run. It was the first chapter of a story. It was the start of a new life. It was saving the world and discovering new things and loss and pain and wonder. It was winning some and losing some. It was good days when the lives he saved were worth it, and bad days when people refused to be saved.

Q shook his head. "No. No, thank you. I'm sure it'll be fine."

There was a long silence. Q had no doubt that the Doctor knew exactly what he was thinking. Finally, he nodded.

"Very well, then. I'll take my leave."

Q counted the steps to the TARDIS doors. One, two, three, four, five, six. He made himself remember every single one of them, and when he stepped back into his kitchen, he closed the doors behind him. He knew he should probably step back, but instead, he held his palm on the door and felt it disappear under his hand, fading in and out with that pulsing, whirring sound, like speaking.

Q didn't need the Doctor to show him how to save the world. He just had to go back to work tomorrow.

He slept very well that night, indeed.


End file.
